Themes in the Key of B
by thedeadparrot
Summary: Bruce Wayne ficlets for the 30gens community on LJ.
1. Bad Weather

A/N: 30 themes, 30 randomly short stories/drabbles/whatnot with varying lengths, varying stlyes, etc. I doubt they'll be posted in number order, but we shall see. They aren't sequential, so it's not like it's a continuing story.

A lot of this is just me experimeting with different styles, POVs, tenses, etc. Not all of it may work, but yeah, that's the way it goes.

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1.) Bad weather 

There are reports of a storm, tail end of a passing hurricane, that is due to hit Gotham in the next few days.

Bruce hears the about it while watching the news late one night, and he falls asleep on the couch as the weatherman drones on and on about cold fronts, the volume of the television turned down low.

He dreams of rain.

---

Bruce finds himself staring out the windows of Wayne Tower during the day. The storm has not come yet, and the sky is still light, a quiet sort of white-gray.

"Mr. Wayne?" one of the board members asks pointedly, at one of their many meetings, his fingers folded neatly on the polished wood of the table. He's old, old enough to have remembered Bruce's father and old enough to find Bruce lacking.

Bruce smiles his most vacant, charming smile and knows that whatever good will he may have garnered for putting Fox in charge is being squandered. "Sorry," he says.

He doesn't give a reason for his distraction. He's sure they'll be able to come up with one on their own.

---

Gliding becomes dangerous. All high winds and dark clouds. From one of Bruce's perches on the tips of his city's skyline, he can see the storm approaching in the distance.

A shiver of anticipation runs down his spine.

---

"Will you be going out tonight?" Alfred asks the first day it rains, concern clear in his voice. He still remains the master of the roundabout question, layers of meaning piling up. _Are you going out into dangerous weather to get yourself nearly killed?_

Bruce frowns and inspects one of the freshly shipped batarangs, testing for sharpness and balance. "Yes," he says and turns away, so that he will not see the sadness and resignation just behind Alfred's eyes.

---

The thug goes down with one elbow to the face as a crack of thunder sears across the night sky.

He finds himself waiting, standing over the fallen bodies, though he knows he shouldn't be idling. In a flash of lightening, he sees the crumpled bodies around him and thinks of his parents, laid out on the dirty ground like this.

It makes him grit his teeth until his jaw throbs in pain.

---

The rain never seeps under his armor, but he's still always wet with sweat when he comes back to the cave.

Tonight, he sits for a moment on one of the cave's natural rock formations, cowl off, and watches as the water pours over the edge of the waterfall, as the suit sticks to his back, before going over the work bench to look over the maps of Gotham's sewer systems one more time.

The sound of water is so loud he no longer hears the thunder outside.

----

He does not think of the storm when when he goes to work, except for when the wind blows the rain so hard the drops splatter loudly against the windows. The noise wakes him, once, when he is nearly about to fall asleep on his desk. He looks out the window and only sees a mass of swirling gray water.

When he does fall asleep, napping after reading half of the latest financial reports, he dreams of drowning.

---

It's harder for him to patrol in the storm, since criminals don't seem to like getting wet any more than regular citizens do, but he still makes the rounds.

He catches a car jacker on 35th, who looks terrified as the rain pours down his face like tears and swears up and down that he'll never do it again. Batman lets him go with just a warning and a promise.

Later, he will wonder if he did the right thing.

---

The storm passes more quickly than it comes. The next morning, Bruce wakes to sunshine and the fresh, clean smell of wind. He gets out of bed carefully, so that the bruises on his ribs only make him slightly wince in pain. His mouth still slightly tastes of blood (busted lip yesterday, a punk got in a lucky punch) and sleep.

He pulls a robe on and walks over to the window, carpet soft under his feet. It's a beautiful day, but as Bruce looks up into the bright, cloudless sky, he wishes it were raining.


	2. Time Spent Apart

A/N: I don't mind Rachel, really.

* * *

19.) Time spent apart 

Rachel missed Bruce in the same way she missed finger painting and monkey bars, the same way she missed SATs and teenage angst over boyfriends. Rachel missed Bruce in the same way she missed all her childhood memories and all their attendant joys and miseries.

She had put him away with the doll she would not part with when she was five, the pony she had wanted at six (and dreamed that one day Dr. Wayne would give to her), the trashy teen romance novels that she always hated herself for liking but still read anyway, and the thrill of riding a roller coaster for the first time. He was a childhood memory, stored in the recesses of her mind for nostalgic moments, nothing more, and Rachel only felt the slightest pang of grief at the official announcement that he was dead.

This was not to say that she did not mourn him, not at all, but she mourned his potential more than she ever mourned _him_. He could have taken up his father's mantle, become a force of good in Gotham, and now he never would. But it was so hard to mourn Bruce himself, because it was always so hard to understand who he was, _what_ he was.

The investigation into his disappearance was closely watched by the media, and Rachel ignored it, to the best of her ability, but it was impossible to avoid it all. The harassment of Alfred, who had inherited everything (if she heard another "of course the butler did it" joke again in her lifetime, it would still be too soon), the sightings in Hong Kong and South Africa, as fleeting as Big Foot and just as likely, the rumors and speculation of suicide. It was everywhere. But she was still a part of it whether she liked it or not.

The police asked her questions, of course, about the night he disappeared, and she did not mention the gun or the plan to murder Chill in the courthouse. She did mention that he had gotten off near the docks, close to Falcone's bar, and that was sufficient enough to get the police to back off the case. She mentioned only Falcone to the press, and that was enough for them to leave her alone, too. But all of it resolved nothing.

To the public, his disappearance was an open wound, and to give it a reason, a name, it could begin to heal. Death. The Wayne line was dead, but Gotham would move on without it. Though Rachel sometimes denied it to herself, it was nice to have that final nail in the coffin as well. She was a person of absolutes, and the ambiguity of the word "missing" did not give her any comfort.

The official announcement was a chance to give up all hope, to finally have closure, for both her and Gotham.

And just when she thought he was put away forever, merely a person she once knew and was gone now, never to return, ready to gather dust in the corners or her mind, just when she thought he was completely behind her, just when she had it all figured out...

He came back.


	3. Unfamiliar Territory

A/N: You know you wanted to read a second person, original charactee POV today. Don't even try to deny it.

* * *

2.) Unfamiliar Territory 

You do not understand Gotham City. It is too big, too different for you to understand.

At the moment, you're here on business, which makes it easier to bear, the strangeness of Gotham. They put you in a medium-sized hotel. Not ostentatious, but not crummy, either. All around you, skyscrapers spring up from the ground, reaching out to touch the sky. In the morning, it can be beautiful, the rising sun reflected off panes of glass. The sight is alien: new and unnatural in a way you can't quite explain.

On the ground, it is similar. The crowds of people, the cars, the stores. It almost overwhelms you every moment you are out. You always wince at the word _provincial_ but you can't help but think of it when you walk around Gotham. You feel like the country bumpkin lost in the big city.

Maybe you are.

---

It is late, you think, and the clock on a nearby building (an office, you think, since it looks closed) confirms that it is one in the morning.

You also think that you may be lost, since all of the streets around you look alike. You think you've passed the same small grocery store three times already. It is surprisingly bright out, the street lights, car headlights, store lights all still on. It doesn't help, however, with getting you back to the hotel.

A few people walk past you, always straightforward, always purposeful. They know where they're going. You don't.

It's a wrong turn, somewhere, and you end up in an alley, with no idea of where to go. Dark garbage, a blank, brick wall blocking the way.

And then there's something pressed against your back and a voice yelling at you to give them all your money.

You're frozen on the spot, unsure of what to do. Well, you do know, but you're so paralyzed by fear that your body refuses to do what you tell it to do.

He's still yelling, snarling, and you finally manage to get your hand to your wallet to give to him, when there's a thud and the pressure at your back is gone, and he's shouting in surprise.

It takes you a few moments to realize that you can turn around now, and when you do, you can only see a black shape fighting your would-be mugger.

When the dust settles (rather quickly, you think, though time has taken on weird shapes), you finally get a clear look at your rescuer, and your mouth drops open in shock.

Batman.

You thought he wasn't real, one of those things that the _Enquirer_ loves to make up, but he stands in front of you, calm and cold. It's hard to make out much of him besides his "ears", his mouth, and his eyes; everything else is hidden in the shadows.

"Are you all right?" he asks, voice low and raspy.

You nod mutely, not sure what to say.

He turns to leave, but you manage to gather your wits. "Wait!" you call after him.

He waits.

"Um, do you know how to get to the Renaissance Hotel?" you ask, feeling very pathetic and very stupid.

He doesn't laugh, doesn't call you stupid, doesn't leave you behind. "Go down twenty-fifth, and when you reach Park Avenue, take a right. It should only be a few blocks further down," he says instead.

You start walking before you realize that you haven't thanked him, and when you turn around, he's already gone.

"Thank you," you say anyway, to the night air. You mean it.

---

Even from an airplane, Gotham seems too big, too massive to ever be fully understood.

As you watch it shrink into the distance, sunset casting the entire city in an orange glow, you think that even though you do not understand it, you cannot wrap your mind around Gotham, maybe there is someone out there who can, who is willing to.

The thought makes you smile.


	4. Education

**A/N:** This is basically four themes for the price of one. Yay. Also, thanks to the people who have been submitting reviews. :) I'm not quite sure what is the best way to respond on but if you have any questions or anything like that, I'll try to respond in the A/N.

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14.) Education 

i. fight

The first time Bruce gets into a fight, he gets a bloody nose, a bloody lip, a nearly dislocated jaw, and a half-decent punch in. He collapses onto the floor, as the other man laughs and sneers, "Don't pick fights you can't win, punk."

The second time Bruce gets into a fight, he manages to last for more than a minute and a get in a few hits and kicks of his own, though his face bruises dark purple for the next week, so that he barely recognizes himself in the mirror.

The third time Bruce gets into a fight, he learns to duck, how to block, and though it's still short, and he still loses, its not quite as embarrassing. That night, he plays each move over and over again in his mind until he can see exactly what he did right and what he did wrong.

The fourth time Bruce gets into a fight, he wins.

ii. locks

The first time Bruce is handed a lock and is told to pick it, he has no idea what to do. Sure, he has a bent-out-of-shape paper clip, and a pro looking over his shoulder, but it doesn't make the act any less confounding or intimidating. He jabs the paper clip in, twists it around for a bit to no avail, until the street-smart thief behind him says, "No. Feel around for the pins."

He does for another few minutes, until he finds them, but then he does not know what to do. He tries poking and prodding at them, but that doesn't do anything. "Lift each one," the man behind him says, irritated, and Bruce tries for a few moments to get it right. It takes him another minute to actually lift each of the pins to the correct position, but when he does, its one of those moments of absolute _rightness,_ as the lock springs open. He grins, but his teacher just shakes his head.

The second time Bruce picks a lock, it takes him another five minutes. It's hard to know what you're looking for, and even when you do, it's not always easy. The pins are irritating to move around. He asks if he can use an actual lock pick at some point, but the thief just shakes his head and tells Bruce he needs to learn it the hard way before being allowed to do it the easy way.

The fifth time Bruce picks a lock, he gets it done quickly, but he needs to mentally remind himself of every step. Feel for each of the pins, lift them up, let the pressure cause the lock jump out of place on its own.

The fiftieth time Bruce picks a lock, he does it without even thinking.

iii. driving

The first time Bruce drives a car, his foot hits the gas instead of the brake, and he nearly runs into the car in front of him, and he can hear his associates (because the only other word for them is "friends" and that's not quite right) cursing in Russian behind him. It's not his fault, really, it's just that he'd always had Alfred or a taxi, and it seemed stupid to learn how to drive while in college.

The second time Bruce drives a car, he swerves quickly, to avoid a pedestrian, and manages to stay on the road somehow. It also allows him the chance to ditch the cops that were coming up behind him. It is more good luck than anything else, but he still gets a thrill out of it.

The five-hundred-twenty-second time Bruce drives a car, it's to send the boss's girlfriend home after a night in the club, and he has to remember to stay focused on the road, because she gets slutty(ier) when she's drunk, and really, the streets of Paris were entirely too small.

The seven-hundred-fifty-first time Bruce drives a car, he goes flying over the lifting bridge and lands in the Narrows, and gets into a massive fight on a train. All in a days work, really.

iv. guns

The first time Bruce holds a gun, he is twenty-two and too young and too eager, and the weapon feels wrong in his hand. But he nods to the guy selling to him and says he'll take it. He hides it in his clothes and doesn't practice, because he'll be at point blank range anyway.

The second time Bruce holds a gun, he almost makes the biggest mistake of his life and even gets smacked for his troubles. He throws the gun into the river, and watches as it sails through the air and listens to the small plonk it makes as it hits the water.

He never holds a gun again.


	5. Old Friends

A/N: Harvey Dent is awesome. I guess this could be less uneven, but whatever.

Anway, for those of you asking, there _will_ be 30 of these altogether. Not sure when I'll finish, but at the end of it all there will be 30 of them. At them moment, I need to study for midterms and such for the next couple of weeks, so posting will be a bit more sporadic.

* * *

9.) Old friends 

Harvey met Bruce at Princeton, during orientation of their freshman year. It had not been a particularly eventful meeting, and it had gone something like this:

Lunch. The dining hall was packed enough that you probably ended up sitting with someone you didn't already know.

"Um, hi. Is anyone sitting here?"

"Uh, no. It's free."

"I'm Bruce, by the way."

"Harvey."

"Nice to meet you."

"Yeah. Nice to meet you too."

The rest of the meal was interspersed with awkward small talk.

---

It took Harvey two days to find out who Bruce really was, because he was originally from New York, and New Yorkers had a tendency to not care about what happened in Gotham. It didn't impress Harvey to know that Bruce was heir to the largest fortune in the world, because New Yorkers don't impress easily either.

Their second meeting was somewhat more and less awkward, because it was obvious that Harvey knew and it was obvious that Bruce knew he knew, though neither of them mentioned it because they were either too chickenshit or it really didn't matter between them. Both probably.

They had a freshman comp class together, and they sat next to one another, because that's just sort of how it worked out.

And when the semester ended, Harvey was almost willing to consider Bruce a friend.

---

Theirs was a loose, easy friendship, a nod and a "Hi." at parties, eating together for lunch after English. They weren't inseparable. They weren't close. They didn't tell each other their deepest darkest secrets.

But they were friends and that did count for something.

---

When Bruce disappeared, the year they both graduated, Harvey did feel a deep feeling of sadness, but it was also tinged with a sense of inevitability. If you were to ask him to explain, he wouldn't have an answer.

---

When Bruce came back, seven years later, Harvey was in Chicago, working his ass off fighting corruption there. He heard the news and thought, _huh, about time_, though he didn't have an explanation for that reaction either.

---

Bruce had introduced Harvey to Rachel Dawes once, during a weekend trip to Gotham. They were both pre-law, and Bruce had figured that was enough for them to hit off.

And surprisingly enough, it was.

They lost contact when Bruce "left", and Harvey was never quite certain if there was a good time to look her up again. But then there was the Narrows thing and the Batman thing and the whole 'freshly dead DA' thing, and Bruce put Rachel in contact with Harvey again.

He was offered the job of a lifetime, the chance to take on Gotham _itself_. How could he refuse?

---

Bruce attended Harvey's housewarming party with a refrigerator. ("Well you said you needed one!" he'd protested when Harvey laughed.)

He was friendly and charming and far more comfortable in his own skin than Harvey had ever seen before. It was fun. They talked a little about how things had been, how they intended things to be (and neither of them mentioned the seven-year-gap, because it was obvious that Bruce didn't want to talk about it, and Harvey had learned that when Bruce didn't want to talk about something, it wasn't talked about). It was a little weird because Rachel was there, and something had went weird between Rachel and Bruce, and Harvey was far enough removed to not feel comfortable enough to pry.

At the end of the night, however, Bruce had laughed and patted Harvey on the arm and said, "Welcome to Gotham." before leaving for Wayne Manor.

Something about it seemed less like a welcoming than a warning, and Harvey couldn't for the life of him explain why that was.


	6. Mimic

**A/N:** Oh look, I'm sort of back. Still busy. Still have midterms, but seeing as its the weekend I figured I could spare a few minutes to update. Sorry this one's so short.

* * *

27.) Mimic/Imitation

_Watch_, Ducard says, and executes a smooth counterattack, sword gleaming in a narrow beam of light allowed through the rafters.

Bruce watches.

_Now you,_ Ducard says, handing the sword over and picking up his own.

The attack, and Bruce imitates Ducard's counterattack perfectly, sword stopping at Ducard's neck.

_No,_ Ducard says.

Bruce nods, but he doesn't know what Ducard means.

Again.

This time Ducard blocks Bruce's counter, returns with a different counter of his own. The sharp metal stops an inch away from Bruce's cheek.

Ducard shakes his head._ It is still mine. It must become _yours.

Again.

But this time, Bruce's counterattack is an inch lower than before, and Ducard's block is too high. Bruce' blade slices a neat line through fabric, only hairsbreadth away from piercing skin and ribs.

Ducard smiles, so that the wrinkles around his eyes crinkle up. _Good,_ he says. _You are learning._


	7. Ocean

A/N: I'm once again sort of back! I would rant about how much midterms sucked, but I'm fully aware that no one wants to hear it, so I won't. I have livejournal for that.

_Anyway_, this one's a little weird. Not really weird (that comes later), just a little.

* * *

29.) Ocean 

Gotham, being an island city and all, has many beaches, and during the summer, they are always crowded with people.

But in autumn, the visitors disappear, leaving the beaches bare and beautiful. Bruce walks down to one of them, one day, while doing reconnaissance. He's not quite sure why. Maybe the loneliness of it draws him. Maybe there is something far more elemental than even that. Bruce doesn't know.

It's a cloudy day, and the ocean stretches out into the gray horizon. The wind is strong here, and Bruce thinks of what it would be like to float on it, flying.

He pulls off his shoes and socks and feels the cool sand beneath his toes. The cell phone and the wallet go into the shoes along with the socks so that they won't get wet or covered in sand. Bruce isn't sure why he's doing this; it's all just instinct at this point, no real thinking it through (and it has been a long time since Bruce last did that, just let himself go).

He only goes ankle deep, at first, rolls up his pants so that the waves only lap at his bare shins. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother him. He's been exposed to far colder.

And he still doesn't know why he's doing this.

It doesn't feel quite right, yet. More. He needs to go deeper. He wades in further, until he's waist-deep and holding his arms up over the surface of the water.

Still not quite far enough. Keep going. The water just below his chest. He turns around and sees Gotham skyscrapers in the distance, sees bridges even farther down, shrouded in mist. They look gray and beautiful, colors washed out of it by the clouds and the inclement rain. He wonders if it's possible that, at this moment, Gotham is as quiet and empty as it looks. It's not, not really, but it looks possible from here. Just possible enough to believe.

Here. This is the right place. He closes his eyes and ducks under the water. Submerged. He knows better than to open his eyes to the harsh seawater, and he likes the blackness behind his eyelids, likes the cold of the water, likes the way his clothes drift around him. Cleansing.

Bruce has no religion now, preferring to remain casually agnostic, but he still recognizes the religious underpinnings of this. A baptism, of a sort. _I shall be clean_.

He almost thinks he hears a female voice respond, _yes._

And then he needs to breathe. It's easy enough to stand up again, but he feels different when coming up. Something in him has changed.

It doesn't make any sense, but maybe it's not supposed to. It was right. Bruce knows this somehow.

He walks back to the shore and sits on a high bank, so that he has a good view of the ocean. His clothes and the sand stick to him uncomfortably, but that feels right. He's cold and it's hard to repress the shiver that wracks his entire body. It's autumn, and he's sitting in wet clothes on a windy beach. But that feels right also.

It is entirely possible that he will catch a cold today.

He remembers his first beach. The memory is tinged a bright gold, like many of his childhood memories are. It was hot that day, and the sweat had glued his hair to his neck. He remembers the people, though there weren't that many of them, and none of them stared the way they stared when Bruce went with his parents to the movies. Maybe Bruce remembers it wrong.

He does still remember sweet, sticky ice cream, the way the salt water stung his eyes, his mother's gentle hands toweling his hair, Alfred's rich laugh as Bruce showed him a shell he had found where the beach met the water.

And for a moment, Bruce thinks he can see it, shimmering, in front of him. He reaches out to touch it again, if only for a moment.

But then the wind picks up, and the illusion is blown away like sand.

The sky is darkening even further. Not a storm. Night. Bruce has been here too long. He has other things to do, other responsibilities.

He picks himself up, brushes off as much sand as he can and walks over to his shoes. He pulls his cell phone from his sock and calls Alfred.

It will be a few minutes before he comes, and Bruce thinks of sitting down again on the beach, running his fingers through the sand.

No. That moment has passed.

Instead, he walks back onto the hard pavement, carrying his shoes in his hand, and waits for Alfred to arrive.


	8. Spectacle

A/N: Very short, but in a kind of weird style, that will probably crop up again at some point.

* * *

25.) Spectacle

a flash, a bang, and their heads turn elsewhere looking for something, someone. (_where is he? i don't see anything! _) a flurry of bullets going nowhere, nowhere to go. noises in the corner, no nothing there. (_shhh._) they spin, they twist, looking, looking, looking, and still they see nothing.

a flap of wings overhead. (_can he really fly?_) turning upward. a punctuated scream as one of them disappears into the black. (_bobby? fuck, he took bobby!_) still twisting, still turning, still turning. they peer into the shadows, looking in vain.

a crash of lightbulb, dark room. can't see, can't see. eyes adjusting to the moonlight. shaky hands on the gun, sweaty palms, almost slipping. no more twisting. no more turning. (_hey, you still here? yeah._) stillness. they wait.

and then he's there, swirl of blackness and fists. (_get him! i'm trying_) moving to fast to see, to think, to feel. flapping, crunches, shouts, bullets, loud. muzzle flashes, though still no light in the darkness. help, help, help. no help to be gotten. alone with the bat. the batman. he's here. shoot, punch empty air. nothing here. someone here. something here. punch, elbow, kick, fall. out like a light, like _the_ light.

one almost getting away, tripping over feet, stumbling, falling. (_no, no, no. please no, please no. please._) scraped hands on concrete floor. black shadow over him, sharp pointed ears. hands raised, if you can't see him, he can't see you. (_please don't kill me, please don't kill me_) beg, plead. only answer the thud of fist on bone.

silence.


	9. Secrets

A/N: You know where I said that everything would be in a completely different style? I kinda lied. I will try to toss in a lot of variety, but I don't think I'll have the creativity to come up with 30 distinct styles. Some will be recycled, alas, but then again, that's probably to be expected. Also, big thank yous toWyndmir and Aranel Abeille, who somehow manage to give me feedback on everything. It's always nice to know that people are still reading.

* * *

15.) Secrets

He talks to Rachel as Bruce Wayne one day, in the lobby of his hotel. It's a casual meeting, all fake smiles, fake questions, fake polite laughs.

She looks beautiful, even with her hair tied up into a severe, crime-fighting bun and thick-framed glasses on her face, and Bruce wants to pretend that there isn't anything they aren't saying because this is a public place, and that there are no things between them that aren't meant to be said in public places.

He gives her a hug and a peck on the cheek before leaving, and the small, sad smile on his face as he walks away is real.

---

Lucius is always, always smiling, and today is no different. Bruce always wonders where he gets that from, whether it's like Bruce's smile, _stop looking at me, I'm harmless._

There's a pattern to these meetings. Lucius has a customary greeting ("What is it today, Mr. Wayne?"), and Bruce has become quite fond of coming up with more and more ridiculous things to respond with ("Do you have anything that could extinguish the sun, just for a moment? I'm not talking about anything _major_, here. A few seconds should be fine.").

But something's different today. Bruce's smile feels more forced, less honest today, and the jokes don't seem quite as funny. Lucius doesn't quite seem to enjoy the runaround as much as usual.

_The dance is playing itself out,_ he thinks.

Maybe it is, but it would be nice if they could still pretend just for a little longer.

---

When people ask Bruce about the split lip, he grins haplessly and says, "Polo." He did learn it after all.

---

Alfred is one of the best liars Bruce has ever known, and Bruce has spent a lot of time around liars.

Today, he's lying about Bruce's recent absence from "work", apologizing for Bruce's sudden "cold", though Bruce doubts that there's anything but relief in voice at the other end. He knows he's looked at as more of an annoyance than an asset, and that frees up days like these, where he can stay home and do some real work.

After he is done speaking on the phone, Alfred turns to Bruce and says, wry humor in his voice, "Mr. James sends his best wishes for your health."

Bruce nods. He will have to fake a cough a few days later, and probably take the afternoon off, just to complete the illusion. It probably should bother him, the way the lies seem to accumulate, build on top of one another, but it doesn't.

He's not quite sure what that means.

---

He sits on top of the manor and watches the sun set. It's beautiful from here, but he itches to be higher up, amongst Gotham's skyscrapers. It would be more beautiful there.

It's late autumn, and bare branches of the trees look like cracks in the orange-pink-yellow of the sky.

The stars are brightest where day meets night in the sky. It makes Bruce think of his father, who took him onto the roof one night with a book of constellations, because it was something fathers did, even though he had forgotten most of his astronomy from high school, and Bruce could name more of the stars than he could.

Bruce wonders if his father had secrets, things that he could not tell the world, whether he learned to lie as well as Bruce did. Bruce sometimes wonders what would have happened if his father had been in his place, whether or not he would have made the same choices.

The only conclusion he ever reaches is no, and the thought weighs heavy on his mind.

But he is not his father, and seven years was long enough for him to run from a ghost.

Turning, he walks back inside to prepare for another night on Gotham's rooftops.

---

Gordon never asks Batman who he is underneath, though they have spent months working together. A lesser man may have asked to know, demanded to know, but Gordon is not a lesser man, and he understands that knowing is irrelevant.

Tonight, they meet, an hour before dawn to look over what they've both discovered about the Riddler case, and while not overwhelmingly useful, it is helpful.

"Good night," Gordon says after they finish, turned away as Batman disappears into the darkness once more. "I hope you have a good day, too."

It gives Batman pause, to think over the Gordon's reasons for not asking. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe thinks that he lives like this, as Batman, all the time.

Maybe he just understands that some secrets are not meant to be told.


	10. Waking Up To The Wind

A/N: I'm back! And alive, even!

* * *

5.) Waking up to the wind

James Gordon is a quiet man, a good man. He loves his wife. He loves his son. There are worse lives to have.

It is his night off, one of the few, and he sleeps soundly, careful not to wake Barbara. It has been a rough week for him, after all. Lots of work to be done; the tricky negotiations between _him_ and the rest of the force never gets easier.

James Gordon needs more sleep.

Except for that he can hear the wind rustling the leaves, and he _knows_ he closed the window earlier, because Barabara had complained that it was too cold.

He sits up. There are very few reasons for why the window would be open right now, and none of them are particularly good, especially in Gotham. There's a gun under the nightstand, all he has to do it reach down and grab it...

"It's me," a raspy voice says, and Gordon relaxes, though only slightly. He nods and puts on his glasses, ushers his surprise guest into the next room, so that they won't wake Barbara. She's had enough to deal with as it is.

Batman moves like a shadow, fluid and unsubstantial. A thing and not a person.

The door closes quietly enough behind them, and there they are together, alone in another room. "Yes?" Gordon asks. He feels old, tired, worn out.

"I wanted to see if you had anything new on the Joker case. You weren't at the office." When Batman stops moving, he really stops moving, almost becoming a statue in the corner of the room.

Gordon sighs, rubs his eyes. He wants to know how late it is, though it's probably not as late as it feels. "It's my night off," he says. "You know what that's like?"

Batman just stares for a moment, eyes dark and blank, and Gordon considers that maybe the concept is completely foreign to him.

"Yes," he says eventually. "I do."

Gordon smiles wryly. "Let me get dressed and I'll meet you at the..." He turns to walk back into the bedroom and change.

He's interrupted suddenly. "No. It can wait until tomorrow."

Gordon turns to look back, surprise evident, but Batman is already gone, disappeared into the night. The smile finds its way back onto his face. "Well, I'll be damned," he mutters. "He might actually be a human being after all."


	11. The Jungle

A/N: Messing around some more with perspectives.

* * *

12.) The jungle 

Gotham is not a gentle, peaceful place. She does not have the tranquility and calm of the suburbs. She is a clash of peoples, cultures, lifestyles. She loves everyone and no one. It is too easy to lose yourself in Gotham, for she will not stop you from doing so.

There are stories whispered of those who are lost in Gotham, the ones who disappear and don't come back. _She is a devourer, an eater of the weak and innocent,_ they say. _Do not go there if you value your life and sanity._ There are those who stay away from Gotham for this reason. There are those who go into Gotham for this reason.

There are those that go into Gotham because they have no other choice, work or family or simply passing through. They do not know how to put Gotham into words, for when they look upon her, they catch only a glimpse of her true spirit.

But there also those who know better, those who _see_ Gotham. Those who live in Gotham because there is no other place they belong. _I like it here,_ they will say, and when they are asked why, they will have no other answer than the same old thing about cities and people and culture. But that is not the real answer, the true answer.

They love Gotham because Gotham has worked her way into their systems, Gotham has dug herself so deep into them that it would be almost impossible to pull her out.

And Gotham worked her way into Bruce's system a long time ago. Even the years away from her, trying to get away, he couldn't, because he was always hers and hers alone. He could not find room in his heart for Cape Town, for Shanghai, for London.

It was Gotham, always Gotham, and as he looks over her, protects her, (loves her), he thinks that maybe that's the way it should be.


	12. Sweet Sixteen

A/N: I love AUs, and I love this sort of way of exploring them. As a quick note, the third one refers to the dropped Year One script by Darren Aronofsky and Frank Miller, which features a very different Bruce Wayne and a very different Alfred. If you're interested at all, it's fairly easy to find it online if you Google it.

* * *

10.) Sweet Sixteen aka Four Sixteenth Birthdays that Bruce Wayne Never Had 

i.

The mansion is bright tonight, golden light spilling out of large windows. You can see the people inside, mingling. Bruce knows he should not be hiding behind the bushes, having just escaped his from his own sixteenth birthday. It wasn't proper and all of that shit.

("You have the Wayne name to uphold," his father would say and usher him inside. "You have _responsibilities._" And Bruce would never say no, would never dare think of disobeying.)

Bruce fiddles with the cigarette in his pocket, wondering if he'd give away his position if he lit it out here, if the flare could be seen through the windows. He also wonders if anyone in there would care. (Almost everyone inside is there for his name or his parents anyway. ) His mother maybe. She might care.

("It's a disgusting habit," she would say, sharp nose in the air. "I don't know why you started." And Bruce would never dream of telling her that he started because she hated it.)

When he looks up, he realizes he can't see the stars from here, not with the light from the windows, and Bruce thinks that may mean something, a metaphor for something that he can't quite put his finger on.

Sweet sixteen. What a load of crap. Today is his last day of freedom, really, his last day before he needs to begin his internship at Wane Enterprises and start picking and choosing which Ivies are good enough for him.

("You're a man now," his father would say, before Bruce would be driven to the office by Alfred. "Time to start acting like one." And Bruce would never tell his father that being a man was overrated.)

"Bruce!" a voice calls out. Even though he can't see who it is, he knows it's Rachel. "Come on back, your parents are looking for you." she says. Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes. He can already imagine his father's disappointed frown, his mother's disapproving scowl.

With a resigned sigh, Bruce goes back inside.

ii.

Today is Master Bruce's sixteenth birthday, Alfred knows. It's not a day a butler forgets.

"Master Wayne?" he asks, when he enters the bedroom. The sight he sees is not too surprising, though he did hope for it to be better.

"A father should never have to bury his son," Thomas Wayne says, taking another sip of the whiskey in his hand. "He would have been sixteen today. I was going to teach him to drive. He always did love the Rolls Royce."

Alfred considers interjecting with an encouraging, comforting comment, just to lighten the mood, but instead, he keeps his mouth shut, letting Master Wayne finish his thoughts.

"I can't help but wonder if it were me instead of him. If I had stepped in front of the bullet. How things would have been different. If things would have been better." Another gulp from the tumbler.

"We cannot hinge the rest of our lives on 'what if's and 'maybe's, Master Wayne. There is always the future to think of," Alfred reminds him, but the memory of a bright, brown-haired boy who was far too clever for his own good still weighs heavy on his own chest, even eight years later.

Thomas Wayne puts the tumbler down, rubs his forehead, and nods. "You're right," he says, a sad smile hanging at the edges of his mouth. "You're always right, Alfred."

They visit the grave together that day.

It has not gotten any easier.

iii.

"How old you think you are, Bruce?" Big Al asks him one day, while Bruce if trying to figure out what exactly _is_ wrong with this engine. Looks fine to him. "You sixteen yet?" He ducks his head out from under the hood of the car.

Bruce shrugs, scratches a dirty cheek with dirty nails. "I dunno. Probably." He wipes his hand on an a rag, mops his brow.

"Hey, Little Al! How old you think Bruce was when we pulled him outta that dumpster?" Big Al yells into the back room.

"Eight, maybe. Sounds about right," comes the answer. Little Al is still probably hunched over his desk, chewing on the eraser of a pencil as he's studying some medicine textbook.

Big Al smiles, all teeth. "There you go then, you're sixteen."

Bruce shrugs again. "OK." He figures sixteen isn't all that different from fifteen. Not like he has his own car anyway. He works on other people's. That's all.

"Eight years." Big Al lets out a low whistle. "Long time, boy. You ever wonder what you were doing in that dumpster anyhow?"

Bruce just stares at him, frowning, because the story of his parents and that night are _his_ and no one else's, and Big Al waves it off, like all of Bruce's "moments", as he calls it.

"Don't have to tell me. Just asking, that's all."

Bruce just nods, mouth still in a tight line. He will write to his father about this later, but for now he will have to go back to working on the engine. It's more important that his past or his birthday, because those things are gone, and the engine is not. That's just the way things are.

That's the way he wants things to be, anyway.

iv.

Bruce stands on the yellow line, as close to the edge of the platform as he dares. As the cars of the train fly past him, a gust of wind tossing his hair into his eyes, he wonders what it would be like to be closer. Would he survive it? Maybe. Maybe not.

The train pulls to a stop, leaving a pair of doors right in front of Bruce's face. He smirks a little, proud to have figured this much out.

It's late enough at night that he's pretty much the only person in this car, with the exception of an older man at the other end, getting in from the other door. Bruce finds a seat on the side with a good view of Gotham, and he notices that the other man does the same.

He slumps down in his seat, worn out from staying up so late. Alfred would probably be worrying, but then again Alfred was always worrying about one thing or another. Hooray for another birthday surrounded by people who were only really there because they were after power or money or both.

The man is staring at him, as far as Bruce can tell out of the corner of his eye. It's a little discomforting, but things like that are part of being rich and famous. You learn to deal.

The man has a funny looking goatee.

And he gets up to walk closer to Bruce.

"Bruce Wayne, I presume?" he asks, his accent a deep, rolling British.

Bruce blinks. "Yeah, that's me."

The man's tall, lording over Bruce in the harsh florescent light of the car, and Bruce isn't exactly all that short either. A quick nod, acknowledging Bruce's answer. "My name is Ducard. I speak for a man named Ra's al Ghul. I don't suppose you would have heard of him."

Bruce is beginning to wonder if this is some sort of weird business thing, like he has some say at the company at the ripe old age of sixteen. "Er, no," he says, "but I'm sure the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, William Earle..."

Ducard chuckles softly. "No. This not a business meeting, Mr. Wayne. I'm here to offer you a path."

Bruce blinks again, collects his thoughts. "What sort of path?" He hopes that Ducard isn't some sort of nutjob. He does seem sane enough, however.

Ducard looks him straight in the eye and says, "The path of justice. The path of the League of Shadows."

Bruce searches Ducard's face for any sign that he's joking. This is just too surreal to believe. "Justice? Like fighting crime?" he asks with a snort.

Ducard does not laugh. His face does not shift from its serious expression. "Surely, you have no love of criminals."

"Disliking crime is one thing. Joining a _crime fighting organization_ is an entirely different one." Bruce lets the sarcasm drip off every word.

Ducard merely shrugs. "Even now, you don't believe you belong here, among the shallow, simpering fools of Gotham's elite. I am offering you a chance to become more than you are expected to be. A chance to become more than one of them. Your father never achieved it. Perhaps you can."

Bruce turns away, to stare at the back of the seat in front of him. He absently notes that someone has scratched "FUCK" onto the plastic with a red ballpoint pen. Ducard does not move, patiently waiting for an answer. When Bruce turns his head back up to face him, he knows what he's going to say. "If I say yes, what would I have to do?"

Ducard smiles, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upward. "We would leave now for Bhutan. There is much we would have to teach you and it would be ideal to start while you're still young."

"Just leave? That's it?" Bruce thinks of Alfred, for a moment. But surely he would understand Bruce's reasons, one day.

"You do not have much to leave behind."

Bruce looks out the window, memorizing the view of Gotham (though its somewhat obstructed by the reflections in the glass). He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I'm ready," he says. "Let's go."


	13. Calendar Day

A/N: Here's more. Sorry it took so long.

* * *

3.) Calendar day 

You do not like today.

Alfred does not wake you like he usually does, does not move in as close as he usually does, instead keeps his distance, hovering.

Or maybe it's just you who has pulled away, maybe it is you who has become distant.

You do not like today.

It is freshly-wet outside, chilly weather, and you wear a warm, wool coat that is black and not tan-brown (because you gave that coat away years ago and you do not wish to have it back).

You step in a puddle outside the Wayne Enterprises building, and the water soaks your sock. You take it off a few hours later, and your foot has wrinkled uncomfortably, so you let it dry that way, one shoe on, one shoe off.

You do not like today.

You tell Lucius that you wish to take the afternoon off, and he nods, quiet concern on his face. He knows what today is, and he understands what it means to you. He does not mention it in words, but he lets you go without so much as a wry remark, and you are grateful for that.

Today, you do not hear the city's sounds as Alfred drives among the city's streets. The world around you is on mute, if only for today.

You do not like today.

The grass of the cemetery is wet, soaking the hem of your pants even further. The hill is nothing, in terms of exertion, but you still climb it slowly, making each step count. Alfred is following behind you. It is his day of mourning as much as it is yours.

The flowers weigh heavy in your hand.

You do not like today.

You come here every year, to pay your respects, to say your goodbyes once more. It never gets easier, but then again, it never gets harder, either. This is one day that nothing changes, that you are once again an eight-year-old boy, sad and alone.

Alfred does not hold you, like he did all those years ago. That is beyond you both now, each of you isolated in your grief.

You do not like today.

At night, fully dressed, you visit that same alley. It has changed, as Gotham has changed. It has become darker, seedier, even worse than it was then. You do not touch anything, merely look, merely remember.

Someone is smoking nearby, you can taste it in the wind. Chill was a smoker, you know, or perhaps that is a detail that your mind has created for yourself, but that smoke smell-taste was all over him that night. You will always remember it that way.

When you go back to the cave, your parents are still dead and you are still alone.

You do not like today.

And yet tomorrow will not be any better.


	14. OneWay Street

A/N: Very loose interpretation of the theme, but you get the idea.

* * *

23.) One-way street 

The first handhold was shaky, and Bruce's fingers nearly slipped, but he managed to catch himself before he made a truly embarrassing fall into the snow.

He steadied himself, finding the right balance. The rock was still solid under his feet, and the next handhold he found was sturdier.

It was a clear, quiet day, so he did not need to worry about the wind or the snow. Not yet. Bruce looked up, saw the white mountain rise up from over the small ledge that Bruce was trying to scale.

It was going to be a long climb.

_The sharp, smoky smell of incense mixing with the softer smell of tea. Ducard talking. "The people here used to worship the mountain, you know," he says, his voice low and soothing._

_"Why?" Bruce asks, mumbling. Almost too much today, and his body feels too tired to move._

_Ducard raises his eyebrows. "Why not? The mountain is everything one could ask for in a god. Majestic, overpowering, unforgiving. The mountain is something _worthy_ of worship."_

After a few days, the wind had begun to pick up, and soft, green mosses grew in patches on the rock. The ground was uneven, surprising dips here and there, where he least expected it. On top of a small hill, he saw jagged, white-blue cliffs in the distance.

His fingers, clumsy in thick gloves, readjusted the pack on his shoulder, shifting the weight so that he wouldn't be sore later on.

Below him, rows of prayer flags flapped in the wind, letting Bruce know he was on on the right path. He made his way carefully over the rocks, coming ever closer to his final destination.

_Ducard teaches him meditation, so that he can learn to still the constant rage that simmers under his skin. And when Bruce learns it, he feels peace for the first time since his parents were murdered._

_"They say those who go up the mountain come back different," Ducard says, with a smile, "because they do. They learn things that cannot be unlearned."_

_Bruce's legs are still crossed, and he is still sitting on the meditation mat, as Ducard talks, and he feels comfortable."But they do come back, right?" he asks, closing his eyes._

_"Sometimes."_

On the way down a small hill, he spotted a patch of blue on the ground, amongst the green and white and gray, and when he leaned over to look closer, he saw that it was a small cluster of blue flowers.

The right kind of flower. He picked it, inspecting its spiky leaves, round petals. He looked up again.

There was still quite a ways to go. The white-gray clouds drifted overhead, never dimming, never lightening.

No time to waste, he reminded himself. This was the first step, the easiest step. He tucked the flower into his coat, a reminder of the end of this journey. He patted it, for good luck.

And then he started to walk.

_"The flower," Bruce asks after a practice session, "what is it for?"_

_His body is still slick with sweat, and his hands are still wrapped in rags. He wants a shower, but he knows better than to hope._

_"It is of the mountain out there," Ducard says, gesturing toward a window, "and of the mountain within yourself." He is leading Bruce to the next lesson, the next meal, the next something, and all Bruce can do is follow. "You will come to understand in time."_

On his way, he found a village, small, nested into the mountain. The people clear out the way for him, huddled masses of wool, as gray as the sky. Bruce had hoped for warm, shelter, but it looked as though there was none here for him.

A boy stared at him from underneath a wool cap, with dark, curious eyes, and Bruce stared back, as curious about him as he surely was of Bruce.

But a man ushered the boy away, his face weathered and old. "You turn back. You go back," he said to Bruce.

As the man walked away, he glanced back for a second, as if he expected Bruce to disappear, to go back down the mountain and go home.

But Bruce couldn't. Turning back was not an option. So he made his way through the village and continued upward, toward a place he wasn't quite sure even existed.

_"When I was coming up the mountain, a man told me to turn back. Why?" Bruce asks during one of their many conversations._

_Snow and ice and harshness, out here, as far as the eye can see. Down below them is gray rock sprinkled with snow, and Bruce thinks of falling, wonders how far it would be to reach the bottom._

_Ducard's voice anchors him, however, keeps him from wandering. "They are simple people. They see the change in the men when they go back down, and they are afraid."_

_"When I go back down, I will be different," Bruce says, merely restating something he already knows in himself._

_The words rest comfortably on his tongue._

The winds and the snow became worse, the further he climbed. He pulled scarf around his face and forehead, leaving only his eyes. It was possible that he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, but it was hard to tell, since he had been losing feeling in various body parts for a while now.

He reached up for the edge of the cliff, pulling his self up entirely with his arms. He collapsed on top of the ledge, panting. Looking up, he could see the monastery right there, large, imposing, waiting. But he was tired and it had been such a long climb.

He got himself upright through sheer force of will, every muscle in his body protesting, and managed to stumble his way to the heavy wooden doors. The wind stung his eyes and nose, but he didn't really mind. He was almost there.

The doors were larger up close than they looked from far away, more imposing. More like a wall than a door. His body was sagging, close to giving up entirely. But this was the path he chose. There was no giving up or turning back now.

With every last bit of strength he had left, he raised his fist, pounded on the door.

And it opened.


	15. Childhood

A/N: Sorry this took so long. Things have been busy, and other fandoms have been attempting to eat my brain.

* * *

7.) Childhood

Bruce can separate his childhood into two distinct halves. Before and After. They could not be more different.

Before is bright, shining days running around the garden (with Rachel, because she was there and she was his age, and she never really cared that he was a Wayne), the taste of syrup on his lips (because his mother made the best pancakes in the world, even though they did have a full-time cook as well), and the smell of his father's cologne (which Bruce cannot describe adequately with words, because the only one that seems to fit is _father_).

Before is innocence and beauty and a perfection that Bruce both loves and hates simultaneously.

There were the bats Before, but the bats were a small price to pay. Bruce would much rather have the bats than have After.

After is rain that won't stop (though Alfred always makes sure he has a raincoat and an umbrella), the taste of vomit and alcohol in his mouth (after another night of what the school counselor called "self-destructive behavior") and the smell of burnt gunpowder in the air (faint, but still clear in his mind).

After is darkness and emptiness and that sort of numb that only comes with true pain.

In his mind, he gives them colors. After black, Before white, and Bruce wishes that the moment where they meet could be a gentle, light gray instead of an all-consuming red.


	16. Drifting

A/N: These were languishing on my harddrive. They were written about three years ago and have had little editing from me between then and now. I figured that with The Dark Knight out, I should just admit that I'm never going to finish these and post what I have.

26.) Drifting

Bruce is drifting.

He drifts through worlds, through lives, through places. He collects little more than stories, memories, tidbits. A rolling stone gathers no moss.

He does not know what he's looking for, but he's still looking, so he probably hasn't found it yet.

--

In Africa, after he hasn't washed for days, he finds a public tap in a small back alley. The water is a dirty brown, but it will do. He closes his eyes and lets it stream through his hair, over his face.

It tastes like mud in his mouth, body too used to creature comforts. He will have to unlearn them to survive out here. He is unlearning them at this moment.

As the water flows over him, he thinks of rain, since the world here is always, always sunny.

Today, the air is hot and dusty. He will not have to worry about drying off. He will dry off eventually, on his own, in the air, and in a few days, he will probably wish for the cool, wet feel of water.

But for now, he pushes his hair back, out of his eyes, and stands up. Blinks a few times. Feels cleaner. Keeps walking.

--

In England, a world a step away from home, just different enough that he notices it. Wrong license plates, wrong side of the road, wrong lots of things.

In England, he learns to speak wrong, twisting his mouth and tongue around strange cockney vowels and phrases that he uses so that no one looks at him too closely. The bloke who looks like Bruce Wayne, but isn't him, because this bloke is from London and doesn't speak American.

The cockney accent is one of the tidbits he's picked up, a curiosity at most. Not what he's ultimately looking for.

It rains one day.

But it is England, after all, and Bruce barely notices until he looks up, into the gray-on-white sky and feels the rain on his face and eyes. He opens his mouth to drink it in, but it is too small, too insubstantial, that sort of mist-rain that barely seems there at all.

He thinks of Gotham's rain, tries to remember what it feels like.

He can't.

--

In Japan, he thinks of an essay one of his professors made him read as he stares at a giant LCD screen advertising cameras (he guesses, since his Japanese is shaky at best). It was about an author that moved to Europe and discovered his American-ness. Something like that.

It makes him wonder if that's what he's looking for.

But while he is American out here, he does not really understand the other Americans, and he cannot understand what they are looking for any more they understand what he is looking for. No, that is not it.

So Bruce finds his bag and wanders back into the darkness to keep searching.

--

In Taiwan, Bruce picks up Judo and Jiu Jitsu and some serviceable Mandarin. It rolls off his tongue even more strangely than the cockney, but one of the guys he's staying with assures him that he's pronouncing it correctly in his own broken English.

It's easier here, where no one really knows who or what he is. Where it doesn't matter.

In the Taipei night market, it's crowed, bright, jammed full of people. It's not Gotham, but it's still a city, and Bruce has long since figured out that he's a city person.

He buys dumplings from a vendor most nights. "Pot stickers" they're called, and it sounds a lot less stupid in Chinese than it does in English. He's certain that they have these in Gotham's Chinatown, though he's never been there.

The next time he's back home, he promises himself, he will get some.

The only problem is, he doesn't know when he's going to be back home.

--

In Bhutan, there is stillness.

It's a world frozen in time, distant and separate from real life. Bruce likes that. It gives him space to learn, to search.

He is always in motion here, constantly pushing himself mentally and physically, which seems at odds with the quiet of the place. He walks barefoot over wooden planks with feet that are too used to stone and steel and thinks of ice, its stability and fragility.

He is still looking, still searching, but he has stopped drifting. He has purpose, he has direction, and he feels rooted here, like he shouldn't leave, not until he's ready.

The training gives him discipline, something he knows he's been lacking, and focus. He can feel himself changing, sharpening, becoming something he _needs_ to be.

The pieces are falling into place, and he's wondering why it couldn't have found this before. He asks Ducard about it, one day.

"What you were looking for was inside yourself all along. You just did not know how to find it," Ducard says, and Bruce believes him.


	17. Argument

**Notes:** Okay, this story makes me cringe and I was debating even adding it. I have discovered that I greatly dislike dialogue-only, which this is a blatant experiment in, and it has an undercurrent of misogyny that makes me uncomfortable. I'm posting it for completeness.

22.) Argument

Let me tell you something, Bruce Wayne is a fucking douchebag. Don't be fooled by the smile, the money, the good looks. The guy is a grade-A asshole.

_Is that so? I never would have guessed. He's always seemed like the pinnacle of gentlemanly proprietary and manners after that whole "showing up late to his own party late and then drunkenly kicking everyone out by calling them 'phonies'" debacle._

Look, I thought you'd be supportive, instead of all this "I told you so" crap. I have a strong need to rant at the moment.

_Sorry. Go on._

I think I began to see him for what he really was during a Christmas party, I'm pretty sure it was the Donovans', they always have a _spectacular_ Christmas party. Anyway, so he takes me to this party, right? _He_ takes _me_. That means, he should, oh, maybe at least spend five minutes in my presence instead of running off to talk to everyone who wasn't me (oh, and Catherine, but after she tossed a drink in his face last week, that wasn't exactly surprising.)

_Really? I haven't heard this story._

It wasn't a big deal, just another one of his other conquests getting her panties in a twist. I think he danced with Valerie and grabbed her ass when he took her (Catherine, not Valerie) to this charity dinner or something like that. He should be glad _I_ haven't thrown anything in his face. It's not for lack of wanting, that's for sure.

_I should hope not._

You did agree to be supportive, right?

_I _am_ being supportive. I'm just sad that you didn't throw anything in his face._

Ha. I really should have, but would I ever want to tell anyone I sunk town to Catherine Turner's level? Definitely not. Of course, that wasn't the worst part about it (the party, I mean), the worst part was that he had his butler drop me off afterward. _His butler._

_Wow. That is low. Please tell me he at _least_ kissed you goodnight._

Nope, not a thing. He rushed out, for no reason whatsoever. I wouldn't have even seen him if I hadn't been coming out of the bathroom at _that exact moment_, I would have missed him.

_So what happened? You probably didn't let him go without a fight._

So I say to him, "Where the hell do you think you're going?" and he grinned at me and said "Out." Like I was too stupid to understand what the hell he had to go out for. I saw Cady eyeing him all night, and he was flirting with her. By pretending to give a crap about this hostage situation or something on TV. He was chatting her up and playing the "I care about the little people, really!" card at the same time.

_He actually did that? Methinks Mr. Wayne has sunk to new lows. And this is a guy that burned down his own house._

Well, I saw them talking in front of the television, and I heard Cady say something about how it was so sad that things like this happen, and he nodded. I didn't catch what he said back, but I'm sure it was suitably sympathetic and bleeding heart. And then, I saw Cady discreetly sneak out five minutes before I went to the bathroom. He should have known I would have seen _that_, surely.

_I wouldn't give him that much credit, actually. Oh, excuse me, waiter? Could I have some more coffee? Thank you._

Oh, so I called him on it, the Cady thing, of course. I think I actually yelled "Do you think I'm a moron?" in his face. Good thing we were in the hallway, instead of in actual public place.

_Did he have anything to say to that?_

Oh, of course. Could I have a slice of the chocolate cake? Thanks. I know I should be counting calories, but I feel chocolate craving setting in. Anyway, so we got into something of an argument right there, him making excuse about having things to do "at the office." As if he actually does anything at Wayne Enterprises. I bet they give him a big office and an inexhaustible supply of secretaries so he won't cause trouble. I bet his "work to do" at the office was Cady. She probably has a desk fetish or something.

_From what I've heard about her, that wouldn't surprise me. There was that whole thing with the CFO of Kord Industries._

Ooh, you'll have to let me in on the scoop, later of course. We were discussing how much of an asshole Bruce is, right? Okay, so then he takes off, and I'm just standing there in shock and disbelief that _anyone_, even Bruce Wayne, would have the _gall_.

_Well, he is reasonably young, ridiculously hot, and ridiculously rich. That would probably give a person a lot of gall._

Still...

_Yeah, I know what you mean._

And then this old English guy comes up to me and goes, "Ma'am. Master Wayne has asked that I take you home." That was actually a decent English accent, wasn't it?

_Yeah, your vocal skills are unparalleled. Get on with the story._

I think I may have been a little rude to him, but I was still pissed off about the whole taking off thing.

_Understandable._

The English guy was actually really nice, actually. He apologized a few times for "Master Wayne"'s behavior and really seemed to mean it.

_I heard he actually raised Bruce. Like after his parents died._

Seriously? That's crazy. Guess he felt bad for seeing the kid he raised turn out to be such a useless asshole.

_Happens to the best of us, I think._

This cake is fantastic, you have to try some.

_Oh, this _is_ good, though I don't think I should have any more. Not good for my figure either. So, yeah, what's the deal with you and Bruce now? You _have_ to have ditched him by now._

We are _so_ over. I don't think I'm ever going to talk to that asshole ever again. He can go rot in hell for all I care. Oh, wait, there goes my phone, sorry. Hello? Oh, it's you. I really should be hanging up right now. Why the hell should I hear you out? After that whole thing at the Donovans'? No, I am not being unreasonable. What about Cady? What do you mean 'which Cady'? The one you were flirting with all night! Where am I right now? Why does that matter? If you really must know, I'm having lunch with Veronica right now. Andreas'. Yes, on 10th Street. Don't even think about coming over. Yeah, you're sorry? Well, I don't believe you. You ignored me all night? I bet you always say that 'oh, I'll do better next time,' and yet you never do. How the hell do you think you're going to make it up to me?

_I think those are yours._

Hmm. What's mine? Wow. That is a really nice necklace. Look, Bruce, I'll consider it. Can we talk it over later? Maybe? Okay. Bye.

_Expensive, yet tasteful, I like._

Hey, we're supposed to be hating him, right? Right? Can I get some support here?

_If you're set on hating him, can I have it?_

No way. He asked me if I wanted to go with him to this charity thing next Tuesday. Do you think I should?

_Up to you. You could always ditch him and keep the necklace. There's no ultimatum involved here, right?_

Well, he seemed really sincere...

_I don't know. If he turns out to be an asshole again, do I get to say 'I told you so' this time?_


	18. Regrets

20.) Regrets

It is always Rachel who asks, because Rachel is the only one in a position to ask.

_Do you ever want anything _more _than this?_ It's always half-whispered over the phone, wistful and sad.

Bruce always answers the question with another question, voice no louder than hers. _More than what?_

She always laughs, short and sharp, forced out more by pain than happiness. _This._

His answer is always different.

Sometimes, he says what she wants to hear, that he wishes for a family, that he wishes to put all of this behind him and live a normal life. Have a family, have kids. He always closes his eyes when he answers this way, imagining an entirely new life behind his eyelids.

Sometimes, he says that he wants to go back and do it all over, and not be afraid of the bats on stage, to tell his dad not to give his mom the necklace, to pretend to be sick and miss the opera altogether. There is always a lump in his throat when he says this, and the images are always fresh in his mind hours later.

Sometimes, he tells her that he does not regret a single moment, a single day. He tells her that he does not wish for anything else, that this is only life he could live, would want to live. He always looks up when he tells her this, imagining the signal in the sky, the feel of wind at his back, the crunch of bone under his fist.

Sometimes, he does not say anything at all, preferring to let the silence speak for him.

It is always after these times that she hangs up first, the gentle click at the other end of the line echoing in his mind.

It is always after these times that he finds himself truly considering what he has lost and what he has gained, truly mulling over her question and all the things she has asked, in more than just words. He always reaches the same conclusion.

The most truthful answer he could possibly give her (and the one he never does) is, _I don't know._


	19. Money

24.) Money

Kev's always said that this fucking world revolves around money. He's said it over and over again to anyone who was willing to listen (and even some who weren't). His ex-girlfriend used to roll her eyes and mutter something about cliches whenever he says it, but there are reasons why she's his ex.

Kev fucking knows it's true, though. Especially in this town. Everything in this town runs on money.

--

He wakes up one Monday two hours late for work. _Shit fuck._ he thinks. Aparment's a mess, and he can't find his last pack of cigarettes. He manages to calm himself down before hitting anything. He'll just get them when he gets to the store, not a big deal. Being a clerk at a convenience store does have its perks.

On the front cover of the _Gazette_ is a story about Bruce Wayne's latest conquest. Some reporter or something. He wonders why the fuck anyone would give that much of a shit about Wayne's life. He's a fucking moron.

But then again, he's money, old, Gotham money. And that's the way this town works.

--

Kev hates his job. It's just shit. His boss treats him like shit. His coworkers treat him like shit. The customers treat him like shit. He probably treats himself like shit too, without even knowing it.

When there's another angry customer in his face, he wonders why he's even here. Why he even bothers.

Oh, right, money. Why the fuck doesn't anyone listen to him?

--

It's late, and all Kev wants to do is close up shop, but he's on shift for another half an hour. He drums his fingers to the rhythm of an old Nirvana song on the counter top instead. It's always pretty dead this time of night, and he's bored out of his fucking skull.

It's not something he expects, a few guys with guns and black ski masks coming in, but he's not exactly surprised either. This shit happens all the time. He watches as a customer screams and one of the guys knocks her out. Another guy puts a gun in Kev's face. Kev can barely work up enough energy to give a flying fuck.

They want the cash register, obviously, and Kev hands it over without argument. It's not like they want to hurt him or anything. They just want the money. (That's what they all want, isn't it?)

All of a sudden, he feels really tired. Shit, man, he doesn't want to deal with this shit. He wants to rub his face with his hands, but he'd probably get shot. Figures.

As they're about to leave, however, something crashes through the window, and Kev sees a black _thing_ before ducking behind the counter. From his hiding place, Kev can hear the screams, the gunshots, the scuffles.

Shit, he really doesn't want to deal with this shit.

When he gets back up, the place is mess. Some of the shelves have fallen and scattered their contents on the floor. The florescent lights are hanging from their wires, and Kev's almost afraid that they'll do that thing where they blow up and throw sparks everywhere and shit. But they don't.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath.

A black shadow moves toward him. "Have you called the cops yet?" it asks, and then Kev can make out something approximating a human face, kind of, underneath a black mask.

"Uh," Kev says. "I was too busy trying not to get shot."

The guy, the thing, cocks his head to the side, and Kev wonders what he(it) wants with him. It's not like he has any cash on him or anything. Kev never been good with the fear thing. In fact, he's been pretty bad with the fear thing. And this this thing is pretty fucking scary. He resists the urge to hyperventilate.

"You should do that now," the thing says, before gliding out and disappearing through the window.

Kev nods to the somewhat empty store (the robbers are unconscious and tied up in a corner) and picks up the cash stolen from the register. He would pocket it, but he's fairly sure that guy is still watching him. He can probably see through walls.

Instead, he puts the money back in the register, calls the cops, leans his head against the front counter, waiting.

It's not until later, when the cops have finally cleared out and stopped asking questions that he realizes that the thing (that really fucking scary bat _thing_) didn't take the money for itself.


	20. Flesh Wound

34.) Flesh wound

Alfred knows the sight of blood.

He knows the feel of it, sliding through your fingers as you attempt to hold back the flow, the taste of it on split lips and bleeding gums. He's seen war, after all. He knows just how much the human body can take and still survive. He's seen it, over and over again.

But at the moment, what he's trying to deal with is _Bruce's_ blood, _Bruce's_ wounds, and that makes it different somehow, as if all blood is different, and Wayne blood especially so.

He watches as Bruce peels the wetsuit from his body, exposing dark bruises and a deep, red gash on his arm.

"Shall I inform Mr. Fox that we will need another repair for the suit?" Alfred asks. It is all about priorities, down here in the cave.

Bruce nods without speaking, and Alfred can see the darkness in his eyes. He is still inside the monster at the moment, but Alfred has learned to ignore it and continue as usual.

It still sometimes surprises him to feel warm flesh as he cleans the cut and bandages it. It is too easy, sometimes, to forget that Bruce is still human, though Alfred has known him far too long and far too well enough to let himself forget.

He treats the wound as gently as possible, fully aware that Bruce would insist that Alfred stop "babying" him if he knew. But Alfred also knows that someone needs to take care of Bruce, and it might as well be him.

It's a good thing this one isn't too deep or too hard to treat, since Bruce is always restless, unwilling to wait the few minutes it takes to treat even a shallow wound. Alfred always moves slower than he absolutely needs to in order to make a point that he's not quite sure Bruce has ever received.

Bruce does not say thank you after Alfred finishes, as if it is either unneeded or understood. He merely gets up and goes back to work.

Alfred thinks he knows Bruce better than anyone in the world (Bruce included), but even he doesn't fully understand him. It's too fragmented to ever form a complete picture. There are too many pieces.

But he is still Bruce Wayne, and Alfred still loves him, and he will still watch over him, just as he promised.

He can't not.


	21. House of Mirrors

4.) House of mirrors

the bat does not go to arkham often, and he is only here now because he was asked to. the hallways _dripdripdrip_ with leaking water and the doors _creeeek_ when opened. old, older than the narrows that hold it, old with age and neglect. it is always dark there, as if the light of the outside world refuses to enter.

the commissioner, gordon, holds the door open for him, straight line mouth and eyes tired of madness and death. the gatekeeper. abandon all hope all ye who enter here.

they walk together, past the _dripdripdrip_, the _creeek,_ into the darkness. a decent into hell.

_i don't think this is a good idea,_ the commissioner says, pushing up his glasses. he licks his lips, a sign of nervousness, a sign of weakness. _he'll talk, sure, but it won't be anything _useful_._

the ramblings of madmen, they are, but the bat does not care. he knows what he is doing.

the joker. his grin stretches across his face, too big, too bright, too cheerful. _what can i do you for, batsy?_ he grins through his carved smile. he grins, and the bat frowns, because he is not in the mood for games today, he is never in the mood for games.

_i want to know what you did, _the bat says.

the joker's grin does not fade. it never fades. _but where's the fun in that? you should never give away the punch line of the joke._

the bat's expression does not change. blank, bland, cool. _i know you were working on something. i want to know what it was._

_what makes you think i'll tell you, batsy? i'm crazy. i don't know my ups from my downs._

the bat stares, eyes black and yawning, but the joker does not notice.

_i'm not crazy,_ he says. _i just act that way sometimes._ and laughs and laughs and laughs until the men in the white coats come and take him away.

gordon is waiting. _did you get anything?_ he asks. he is nervous. he is tense. he does not belong in here, lost in madness.

_no, _the bat says, disappearing into the darkness before they can take him away, too.


End file.
